Now.
Between us.
His gaze holds mine. “If you remain close,” he says, “it will continue more often until we are fully bonded.”
The words are low. Controlled. But there’s no hiding what sits underneath them.
Need.
Pain.
Both are tangled so completely, they’re indistinguishable.
“And if we don’t complete the bond?” I ask.
The question comes out quieter than I expect. Less defiant and more… real.
There’s a pause. It’s not long, but long enough for my own thoughts to catch up with me—andthatis the problem. Because the moment the words leave my mouth, something else follows right behind them, uninvited and uncomfortable.
What if I leave?The thought hurts.
It’s not hypothetical anymore. Not some distant, impossible idea I tucked away years ago when hope got too expensive to keep. Now we have leads. The scrolls. The research. Solan and Jack actively trying to send someone back.
Home isn’t just a memory anymore. It’s a possibility.
And if itispossible, what then?
I don’t need Varek’s truth-sense to call me out on the direction my head just took. I feel it myself, immediate and undeniable.
If I leave, what does that do to him? Tothis?
Would this be his life? That heat. That pain. Two days every month, and moments like this tearing through him whenever I’m close, with no end in sight.
Because I walked away.
Again.
Something in my chest twists, hard and uncomfortable.
I drag my gaze back to him. Varek hasn’t looked away. Of course he hasn’t. He wouldn’t.
“You already know the answer,” he says. He’s not even harsh, though I honestly feel like I deserve all his wrath. Sure, it’s not like I actually knew and was like “oh well” and shrugged, but still, I feel like shit.
“Say it anyway,” I mutter, preparing myself for his response.
His jaw works slightly, like he doesn’t want to—but he will. Always. “It will continue,” he says. The words are steady and measured. But there’s no softening them. “The heat will persist. The pain will remain.” A beat follows. “It will not lessen with time.”
I swallow. “And if I’m not here?” I ask, forcing it out. Because if I’m going to ask the question, I need the whole truth.
His gaze narrows slightly. “It will still occur.”
Of course it will.
“Will it be worse?” I press.
A fraction of a pause. Then, he answers, “Yes.”
The word drops like a weight in my gut.
